


Lately Come Back

by Thimblerig



Series: Soldiers Three [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Author Refuses To Apologise, Comedy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-11-06 09:18:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11033253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: The dreaded after-action report.





	1. In which there was a civil discussion.

**Author's Note:**

> I felt a burning need for some comedy.
> 
> Am not at all sorry.

As a young soldier, bursting with piss, vinegar, and zeal for his country, Treville had dreaded after-action reports, that time when a grizzled, dour veteran would deconstruct his every cunning plan and gallant impulse in an attempt to find out, for example, _why_ such-and-such alleged municipal building was allegedly on fire. (It was the basements that were the problem, not that the youthful Troisville knew anything about that. And the cornices were ugly. _Allegedly.)_

He still dreaded them.

“Start from the beginning!” he barked to the three men that stood at attention before him in his office. 

They were an eclectic group. The youngest, tousle-haired and pretty, had found a shoulder-cape in the regimental colours, slung over a doublet of rich brocade which he wore with dash, despite one arm bound up with a linen sling. He opened his mouth, appeared to think better of it, and shot a glance to the man beside him, a brunet with a grecian profile and the supercilious gentlemanly air of the _aristocracy d’epee_ , born nobility. The gentleman looked saturnine. His companion, a large man with his curly hair cropped close to his scalp, a recent, red gash cutting through his eyebrow and lid, and, ingrained on his light brown hands, the residual powder stains that marked one who had served a cannon in the artillery. 

The artilleryman asked, with the solicitous concern of a ranker about to feed his superior a load of rotten fish, “Do you mean, how we joined the army, sir?” 

“One would not want to answer with a lack of clarity,” drawled the gentleman.

The youngest, Aramis, Treville’s missing marksman, opened his mouth again, shut it, looked shifty.

With an effort, Treville answered levelly, “How did you, the three of you, come to the bastion of Saint-Martin, during the Siege of La Rochelle, on the occasion of the 3rd of June.

"I was scouting, sir!” said Aramis, looking relieved.

"I had a hangover," said the gentleman, with a condescending drawl, "and with all the wretched hubbub of the siege camp, a desolate tower buried in the heart of no-man's-land was a welcome haven of peace and serenity.

"And you?" Treville asked the artilleryman.

The big man smiled equably. "He owed me money," he said, pointing to the gentleman. "From a game of cards the night before."

The gentleman's eyes widened. "I still haven't paid you," he muttered, visibly shaken. "I must take care of this at once!"

The artilleryman waved his hand. "Think nothing of it."

"No, you do not understand, this has never happened to me before! A gentleman _always_ pays his debts on time -"

"Are you saying I do not understand gentlemen?" said the artilleryman, his voice soft with menace, and his hand strayed to his sword-hilt.

"Are you saying I am incapable of paying my debts?" rejoined the gentleman, and his hand also strayed.

"As I was saying," Aramis interrupted, “I was scouting ahead of the push we were going to make on the 5th.”

“That plan was classified.”

Aramis blinked mildly at him. “My mistake, Captain. I must have dreamed it.”

The gentleman said, “I and Porthos were discussing -”

“Bickering,” the artilleryman interrupted.

“Having a _civil,_ if vigorous discussion on the precise rules of _vingt et un_ when a pile of masonry -”

“That was I,” added Aramis helpfully, “in disguise.”

“- asked us to hold our discussion either more quietly, or in a different venue.”

“Actually,” said the large artilleryman, Porthos, “he complained that we were excellent scarecrows but there were no crops in the ground, so if we’d kindly -” 

Treville frowned. "'Porthos,' you said?"

"Porthos _du Vallon_ ," the big man replied with his eyes narrowed, emphasising the gentlemanly surname.

"Hm," said the captain. "Please, continue."

“They offered me wine,” said Aramis, “a rather good vintage, and the remains of Athos’ breakfast.”

“Skinny things that you two are I don’t know how you put all that roast partridge away,” said Porthos, pointedly not flexing his own, superior, muscles.

“Intestinal fortitude, on my part,” said Aramis. “I cannot speak for Athos.”

“You are quite welcome to,” said Athos, his stiffness loosening as he looked at the younger man almost fondly.

“I shall remember that,” said Aramis, smiling.

Treville coughed.

“And then!” said Porthos, seizing the floor, “a party of Rochellais scouts contributed to the festivities by opening the last bottle of wine. _With a bullet.”_ He gestured, his large hands sure, describing the distribution of troops.

Aramis shrugged. “It wasn’t a difficult fight, Captain.”

“We had the high ground,” added Athos, “and cover, and sufficient powder.”

“And, _and,”_ said Porthos, “we saved the last bottle, broken neck and all, for a post-battle drink.” 

“But you didn’t come back to camp,” said Treville, his fierce blue eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Oh,” said Aramis dismissively, “the tower fell in.”

_tbc_


	2. In which Athos did not contemplate mutiny.

"It was then," said Aramis carefully, "that matters became somewhat complicated."

“We survived the landing,” Athos assured Treville.

“Tuck and roll, that’s the way to do it,” said Porthos to Aramis, somewhat smug.

“But the first rescuers to come to our aid were, as it happens, Huguenot rebels from the nearby city.” Athos made a moue of distaste. “Our garments were obscured by the dust and rubble, and they did not at first take us for the opposite side.

"I was unconscious at that time," said Aramis, "but I believe these gentlemen then made use of a ruse, or stratagem."

"Strategising, hell," said Porthos, "Athos just went along with the tide."

"There was no mendacity on my part. Simply, when our rescuers took one look at Aramis and began to cry, 'It's the Duke of Buckingham!' I did not immediately correct them. It seemed rude. And I might have been mistaken."

"I cannot account for it," said Aramis, "for I have no relatives in England, not even the sunny parts."

"Yet Aramis here does possess an uncanny resemblance to George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham," said Athos. "Not that I am saying I have ever seen that Englishman in person," he added quickly.

"I believe the fine lace on the collar of my shirt helped," said Aramis, "lending as it does an air of distinction and nobility to my otherwise unprepossessing visage. Have I not often said, 'look after your linen, and your linen will look after you'?"

"In the context of clean bandages for our medical supplies, you have indeed," said Treville dryly.

"It is an all-purpose proverb."

“We doffed our ruined garments in the process of the rescue, and followed along with our unconscious comrade.”

“Or,” said Porthos in a spirit of great accuracy, “you followed along as young Aramis here clung to your shirt sleeves.”

“I am a _somnamplectorist,”_ said Aramis solemnly. “It is a long-established character flaw.”

“He clings,” Porthos clarified.

"Which accounts for how you found yourself behind enemy lines without your uniform," said Treville, making a note on one of his reports.

"It is not spying if they drag you back behind their lines without a by-or-leave on your part," said Aramis with great severity. "I was a prisoner of war!"

"A very well-tended one."

"Oh yes, the sheets and bedding on that boat were marvellous."

"Schooner."

"Bless you."

"I mean it was a schooner," said Porthos, "a two-masted, gaff-rigged schooner, to be precise. Never call it a boat."

Treville shuffled his papers. "And how did you find yourself transported from the heart of La Rochelle onto a boat?"

"Schooner!"

"There was a transport returning to England that afternoon, and the Rochellais were not entirely keen for the Duke their greatest ally to be known to die in their city, as a result of their own bombardment. We really spent very little time in the city," said Aramis. His face crumpled, suddenly. "They were down to eating boot leather," he said quietly, "and the women and children were starving themselves to keep the soldiers alive."

Athos touched him gently on the wrist,

Aramis took a breath. “In any case, they loaded us onto an outgoing… vessel, which ran the blockade without incident. There was even a lady on board - though we did not meet her - some appreciate their privacy. We determined to pass the journey quietly, debark in London, and make our way home on a neutral vessel. We knew,” he said virtuously, “that you would want my report as soon as possible.”

Treville coughed into his fist.

Porthos added, “We did, briefly, entertain the notion of an adventure in mutiny -”

“But did not,” Athos said, “for, as we were _passengers_ and not crew, it would have been an act of -”

Porthos rolled his eyes, then gathered the slighter man into a one-armed hug.

“He’s so punctilious about language,” he said affectionately. “Piracy, then. And we were a tad outnumbered.”

“By the merest trifle,” added Aramis. “But we’d already mussed our first set of clothes, and it seemed irresponsible to one’s tailoring budget.”

“I am sure that matters would have continued well in hand,” Athos said gravely, “were it not for the puritan."

"A puritan?" asked Treville.

"The puritan," nodded Porthos.

"The _puritan!"_ snarled Aramis, his eyes flashing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A two-masted gaff-rigged schooner_ \- all I know about shipping, I got from the internet. Specifically: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaff_rig and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schooner If I've made an egregrious error, please let me know so I can make it right.
> 
>  _“I am a somnamplectorist.”_ \- If you will excuse the butchered Latin: ‘sleep-hugger’.


	3. In which nobody is moved to discuss the donkey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late.
> 
> Er, no disrespect is intended towards any religious sect mentioned here, at least, no more disrespect than is sent to any other element of this story. It's even-handed disrespect, is what I'm saying.

“Tell me of this… puritan,” Treville said, oddly cautious, as a soldier feeling his way across boggy ground.

The little nobleman, Athos, answered. “Our boat -”

“Schooner.”

“Bless you. Our _vessel_ arrived, as it happens, at a small fishing village near Dover. We meant to disembark quietly, but alas an agent of the English Crown was far too interested in making us feel… welcome. In his own way.”

“He didn’t want to play cards,” said Porthos sadly. “Or drink with Athos. It just ain’t right.”

“This Felton was acquainted with the Duke our comrade was impersonating -”

“Reluctantly,” Aramis added. “Quite against my inclination -”

"- and was less than credulous as to Aramis’ _bona fides._ Our next plan was to tell him that Aramis was _Gerald_ Villiers, the long-lost twin brother of Buckingham, who had been hidden away that he might not interfere with the Englishman's inheritance."

"I like the classics," added Porthos.

“But he said a number of scathing diatribes about plots stolen from penny-plays and on theatre, and theatre-goers, as a whole -”

“The unwarranted sauce. I’ve known some wonderful comic actresses,” Aramis said. “There’s no need to cast aspersions on anyone’s character.”

“The upshot of which,” Athos said, plowing through his friend’s comments with the air of a bulldog walking through a field of kittens, delicately placing his feet yet determined to move on despite every encumbrance, “is that we were sequestered for our ‘health and privacy’ while this Felton sent to London for instructions."

“And the other passenger’s disposition?” asked Treville, eyes sharpening.

“I do not recall. It was some time ago and we were otherwise occupied.”

“Some days later,” added Porthos amiably, “having grown tired of the accommodation, we resolved to take our leave. We needed some space, some room to stretch our legs, an opportunity to make a clean getaway. So we arranged a distraction.”

“This Felton did not, as mentioned hitherto, indulge in either drink or gambling with cards, or with dice. Luckily for us, like most puritans, he held another vice which Aramis was amply prepared to satisfy.”

Treville cocked a bushy grey eyebrow. His young Musketeer began to gain colour like a ripening strawberry, reddening and reddening.

“The endurance…” Porthos said in wonderment. “We all knew what Aramis was capable of, but that Felton - he was a man of unexpected aptitude.”

“Ha!” Aramis burst out.

“They were occupied in a private chamber for hours,” Athos said blandly, “and we used that time to charm the tower-keeper’s daughter into smuggling us out in a load of laundry.”

“My idea,” added Porthos. “Another classic. When we went to collect Aramis though, he was _still_ busy.” He sighed.

“His exegesis of the Book of Corinthians was profoundly flawed!” Aramis burst out. “That’s what comes of reading translations, there’s no _thinking_ along with the faith: Puritans are awful theologians. And. _And -”_

“In the end we cold-cocked Felton and carried young Aramis off,” said Porthos helpfully.

“He was a _ranting Calvinist,”_ Aramis hissed.

“And we continued on our way home via a privately owned felucca and otherwise travelling quietly,” said Athos, “in our _earnest desire_ to report back to various military commanders and get home in time for Christmas.”

Aramis huffed and pulled himself back into composure. “It is as my dear Athos says, returning home to report to you, my Captain, was indeed my sole desire.”

Treville glanced out the window where a few flakes of crystalline snow fell, nay, _danced_ in purest delight of the crisp winter air. “Is there anything else you would like to add before I sign off?” he asked blandly.

“N-no?” Aramis hazarded. “My arm’s almost better after the sec- from when I broke it.”

Captain Treville ruffled grimly through the _other_ reports that had been dropping, haphazard, onto his desk over the past month - the death of Buckingham, murdered by some zealot Puritan named Felton - the appearance of Buckingham a clear week later, presiding over a gala in the royal menagerie - theft of a valuable necklace of ten or perhaps twelve pendant diamonds - the wrecked felucca found burning in the Channel - a fire at a private library in Calais where the books were later found neatly stacked under a nearby awning - a missing draper’s wife - a much-talked about duel over floral arrangements the referee of which answered this Porthos’ description - another missing draper’s wife - the dramatic and desperate climb of a clock-tower in Lyons… _the donkey._

He let the last of the reports fall and shut the document case firmly.

“Very good,” he said crisply. “Stow your gear and report to evening muster.”

Young Aramis straightened.

“And you two,” Treville barked at the others. They stared at him impassively.

“Do you want a job?”


End file.
